


Narrative

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Incest, M/M, POV First Person, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-23
Updated: 2010-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 03:17:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the process of avoiding a blood test and requiring Mycroft's assistance to do so, this is the narrative inside Sherlock's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narrative

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat and obviously in the genesis of it all to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

"It's just routine!" Lestrade snaps.

Irritation but also a touch of something else. Anger. Concern? Lestrade is worried. Worried about-

"They just want to make sure you haven't got tetanus."

Blood sample. Just one small vial and- Venipuncture. With gloves of course. All very efficient these days. Sterile. No chance of cross-contamination. Still, no face masks. Possible-

"Where's John?" Cutting off the thought. Quickly. Deliberately.  
"What?"  
"You know, John Watson, my-" Vicious, little defensive. Good, that works. Stalled, mid-sentence. Give Lestrade something to puzzle over.  
"I'll go find him." Lestrade sighs. Resigned, not annoyed. Still worried.

Bite back the reflexive "I'm clean" before Lestrade gets away. Won't help. Can't help lying. Lying? When was the last- Can't- last week? Week before? Tuesday? Don't remember. Irrelevant details. "Write down the trivial: it's not worth remembering." Mycroft. Can't- shouldn't- evidence. What does Mycroft write in that book?

Look around instead. Don't care about Mycroft's book. Irrelevant data. Not the only one. Two men in front, one woman. Woman's observant. Looking, cataloguing. Sneers at something. Quickly. Expression gone again. Hospital worker? Lab technician? Lips curl again. Dirt. It's the dirt she's sneering at. Not sanitary. Hospital filled with filth and germs. Chance of contamination-

"Sherlock!"  
John. Worried. Anxious. Gets worse when- oh, holding left wrist too tightly. Not injured. Not really. No need for blood sample. "Ring Mycroft."  
"What?"  
Unbearably stupid. Not John. "Ring my brother." Force it out between clenched teeth. Mycroft. Only person who can- Not going to beg. Don't have to. Gave up- self-preservation more important. "Have you rung him yet?"  
Fumbles with phone. Not too worried then. John has steady hands. Just annoyed.  
Grab phone. Taking too long. Text. "Get me out of this fucking hospital." Send.  
Let John snatch phone back. Better that way. Won't send second text. "Please." How can one word be so degrading?

One man taken in to have blood taken. Ignoring John. Mycroft. Where- What difference does it make if the Earth goes round the Sun? Mycroft. Where is Mycroft? What if- if... No Mycroft here to save you now, Sherlock. Well done. Talking to self. Bad sign. Getting desperate. Where is- _Special Branch?_ How dare he! John's staring now. Must have said it out loud. Can't... take me away like a criminal. Mycroft. Bastard. I- humiliating. Have no choice.

One man goes to the desk. Other standing over me. God, Mycroft, you absolute bastard.  
"Mr Holmes? I'm sorry about the mix-up; the car's waiting."  
 _Mr_ Holmes? Mix-up? Oh God, Mycroft, you utter- Stand up. Not too quickly. Look bored.  
"Of course." Oxbridge drawl. Lazy smile in John's direction. "Coming?" Smile condescendingly at hospital staff on the way out. Car is right at the door of course. Wave casually to Lestrade. Get in. Let the door close behind.

Start to say something to John. Realise Mycroft is in the car as well. Relief. Should curse at him. Slump back against the seat instead. Sideways too. Head on Mycroft's shoulder. Close eyes. Don't look at his face. Just breathe.

"My brother has a tendency to get himself into all sorts of trouble."  
Ignore John's reply. Wrap hand around Mycroft's arm. Silly really. Wouldn't- can't find if it they're not looking. Wouldn't. Costs too much. God save the NHS.  
"He's clean."  
Mycroft? Why would- Oh. John.  
"Doesn't even smoke, right?"  
Bitter. Why? Haven't smoked in months.  
"Pour me a drink would you, Sherlock."  
Sit up. Open eyes. Don't object. Can't hurt. Just once. Pull open the little drinks cabinet. Only one glass. Use to be two. Where's the other one gone? Pour Mycroft a scotch. Note cigarette packet. Hand him drink. Stare at cigarette packet for longer than strictly necessary.  
"Have one if you like."  
See John twitch uncomfortably. Note lighter on top of packet. Probably silver plated.  
"Weren't you trying to give up?"  
John's voice is strained. Pretending to be joking. False humour covering what? Pick packet and lighter up. Examine brand. Mycroft smiling? Maybe not. Taking sip from glass instead.  
"These are too strong." Announce the obvious. John seems pleased. Mycroft isn't. Why?  
"Try them. I'm told they're very smooth."  
Told? Mycroft's tried them. He's never that certain of anything he hasn't tried himself.

Take cigarette out of elaborate packet carefully. Black with gold paper around filter. Russian Imperial crest stamped on packet and cigarette filter. Breathe the scent in. Distinctive. Can smell mints on Mycroft's breath. Packet missing two already. Hold cigarette up to parted lips. John squirms. Doesn't look away though. Flame flares under the tip. Didn't see Mycroft pick up the lighter. Odd. Usually notice that sort of thing. Inhale. Close mouth around the taste. Flick tongue through it. Breathe out through nostrils. John coughs. Mycroft takes another sip of whisky. Catch him smiling before the liquid goes down. John's not looking now. Deliberate. Doesn't approve of smoking? Curious. He is a doctor after all. First do no harm. Hypocrites' oath. Smile at that. Mycroft smiles back. Curious. He's paying far too much attention.

John still hasn't looked back. Does he really hate smoking that much? Slouch against Mycroft instead. Sullen. Should work. Does. Doesn't. John's eyes. Wide. Surprise. Looks at Mycroft instead. Mycroft isn't interesting. Raises his glass to John and drinks some more. John. Expression collapses. Despair? What- Hold on to Mycroft's arm again. Something in that smile. Dangerous. Terrifying. Ownership. Turn cheek against Mycroft's shoulder. John's eyes. Appalled. Laugh. Too ludicrous. Too hysterical. Recover from fit with Mycroft's arm around shoulders. John's fingers on pulse. Idiots. Makes three.

Spend the rest of the journey looking out of the windows. Smoking. Plotting. Want them both of course. Wouldn't mind cocaine either. Look back at them both. Semblance of polite conversation now. Lean against armrest. Physical distance. Take in mirrored postures in window's reflection. John is as dangerous as Mycroft. Enjoy danger- No. Not danger. Not excitement either. Control. Watch John's steady hands. Mycroft's mechanical smile. Want. Realise- Jim Moriarty has no control, not even over himself. Disgusted. Amused. Laughing again.

"When Moriarty dies I'll let you both fuck me." Throw it out there. Obvious challenge.

John's hands. Mycroft's mouth. Their eyes. Let head fall back against headrest. Close eyes. Smile. Exhale.

Not bored anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Sobranie Black Russians are fairly strong luxury cigarettes and are remarkably smooth, though they're probably not quite as strong as Belomorkanal.


End file.
